


i hate that i want you

by impulsemomentum



Series: glass shards and broken hearts [1]
Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Short One Shot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 16:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17511920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impulsemomentum/pseuds/impulsemomentum
Summary: “We have to stop doing this.” Nico whispers, pressed against the bedsheets.“Shut the fuck up.” Pierre growls, fingers digging into his hips, and Nico does, shuddering as he comes, cries muffled against Pierre’s shoulder.





	i hate that i want you

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: these are real people with real lives and real families
> 
> Warning: this fic features a pretty unhealthy relationship dynamic so if you’re uncomfortable with that please do not read
> 
> title from i hate u i love u - gnash ft olivia brien

“We have to stop doing this.” Nico whispers, pressed against the bedsheets.

 

“Shut the fuck up.” Pierre growls, fingers digging into his hips, and Nico does, shuddering as he comes, cries muffled against Pierre’s shoulder.

 

When he wakes in the morning, Pierre’s gone, leaving only a text apprising him of the practice schedule for the day.

 

———

 

Nico’s been expecting him since the end of his match against Milos, and sure enough, as he emerges out of the shower, Pierre is standing with his back to him, regarding the sun setting outside.

 

“Pierre-Hugues.” Nico says, helpless. He doesn’t even realise he’s walking towards him until he gets there, and he reaches out, trailing his fingertips along Pierre’s forearm, taut with tension.

 

“Don’t.” Pierre doesn’t turn around, but his voice is pained, straining to reach past the knots in his throat. “Don-I don’t want to talk.”

 

Nico doesn’t say anything. He just leaves his fingers where they are, not pressing down, yet not retracting them either.

 

“I said, I don’t fucking want to talk.” Pierre whirls around, eyes blazing. “Fuck off, Nicolas.”

 

Nico kisses him.

 

———

 

Pierre leaves furious marks on him, blooms of purple bruises from fingers and teeth. Nico writhes and gasps through it all, painfully hard against his stomach. He flat out sobs when Pierre closes his fist around his cock, tugging roughly as he bites down on Nico’s shoulder hard enough to draw blood.

 

He lets Pierre fuck him into the mattress ruthlessly, breath forced out of his lungs at every thrust. They don’t talk, but Nico can feel moisture against his neck, can hear the hitches in Pierre’s breathing. His hands scramble for purchase against the cool sheets as his mind finally, blissfully, stops whirling.

 

Pierre joins him in the bathroom the next morning. They don’t say a word, but Pierre traces the marks reverently, and Nico shudders when he presses his mouth over a scabbing bite mark. It’s his way of saying sorry, and Nico’s way of forgiving the only way he knows how.

 

———

 

The first time it happens is in Indian Wells, after Nico loses 4 and 1 to Richard in the second round. They’re sharing a suite, Julia away for her studies. When Nico walks in, weary, with the dying sun behind him, Pierre’s on the sofa, a replay of the day’s matches playing on the television.

 

“Good match.” Pierre offers, even though they both know it wasn’t. “You tried your best.”

 

Nico feels like he can’t breathe. “Pierrot...” He croaks. “I need..”

 

“Nico?” Pierre stands, frowning in concern.

 

Nico sinks down to his knees in front of him, and he hears his breath hitch.

 

“Nico..?” Pierre sounds hesitant. “Wh-what..”

 

“I need,” Nico says, desperately, “Let me...please.”

 

There’s a loaded moment of silence that seems to last an eternity, and then Pierre’s fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him forward. Nico almost sobs with relief, and leans forward, blindly nosing at Pierre’s crotch. Pierre groans, long and deep, and sits back down on the couch hard.

 

After that, it’s a blur of heated flesh and panting, as Pierre cants his hips so Nico can pull his sweatpants down, and press his mouth to the tent in the front. He wets the fabric of his boxers, and Pierre’s grip on his hair tightens, sending tingles through his scalp.

 

Nico is completely soft the entire time, tears mixing with Pierre’s pre-cum and his own spit as he takes in as much as he can of Pierre’s length, hearing Pierre’s hiss when the tip of his cock touches Nico’s throat. He swallows when Pierre comes, and collapses against him, still kneeling, mind finally quiet.

 

“We can’t do this again.” Nico says hoarsely, not moving from where his head is nestled between Pierre’s thighs. Pierre nods, hand still tangled in Nico’s hair.

 

They do this again, when Nico loses in Miami. Then Pierre loses, comes to Nico’s hotel room in the middle of the night, and Nico kisses him until he can’t breathe.

 

They both know better. They both keep going.

 

———

 

Nico thinks Julia suspects. There’s nights when Pierre barges into his room, desperate and fuming, and the mornings after, Julia smiles at him but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

 

Virginie doesn’t know. Nico can’t look her in the eyes when they’re alone, and he’s sinking into her slowly.

 

He and Pierre don’t talk about Natanel.

 

———

 

They’re not the type of people who tease over candlelit dinners, and hold hands on the streets of Paris. When they win, they hug, say nice words to each other, and go their separate ways. Nico says he loves Pierre to a journalist, half-joking, and feels bile rising in his throat. Pierre says the words “love affair”, and they both freeze for a split second, before laughing it off.

 

The offseason after the Davis Cup final is cold, both in Europe and in their hearts. Pierre lives in Switzerland with Julia and Nico takes Natanel to school in Boulogne-Billancourt each day, and they don’t talk. They meet up for the last two weeks of preseason to practice, and words and jokes flow easy, but they can both feel the underlying tension.

 

Then Pierre loses in Doha, and Nico sits in his living room in the middle of the night, waiting for the inevitable call.

 

“Help me forget.” Pierre says, when the call comes eventually. His voice is hoarse, like he’s been crying.

 

“Okay.” Nico says quietly, and speaks about everything and nothing, about the weather and his new phone, as Pierre jerks off halfway across the world, breathing heavily across the phone call.

 

He’s not sure who hangs up.

 

———

 

Pierre opens the door to Nico’s hotel room, hours after they’ve wrapped up the match against Ram and Salisbury, as Nico’s finally settled in with a glass of wine and a complimentary dessert from room service.

 

“It’s your birthday.” He says.

 

Nico raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

 

Pierre knocks over the wineglass when he lunges forward, bruising Nico’s lips, but Nico doesn’t care.

 

He isn’t gentle, because neither of them know how to be gentle to each other. Nico just hangs on as Pierre ravages his body, littering bites on his chest, down his thighs, and digs his fingers into his wrists hard enough to bruise.

 

Pierre eats him out, rough swipes of tongue and teeth as Nico gasps and moans underneath him, hands fisted against the sheets. His dick strains painfully against the bed, but Pierre doesn’t acknowledge it at all.

 

Pierre flips him, so that they’re looking at each other when he thrusts into Nico. It hurts, because all the preparation Nico’s gotten is Pierre’s saliva and tongue and fingers, but it feels so good, and Nico looks at Pierre’s dark pupils and the flush that spreads across his chest, and feels abruptly like a weight has been lifted off his chest.

 

———

 

Nico reads the text, then turns, and hurls his phone at the wall.

**Author's Note:**

> désolé à tous <3


End file.
